


Walking Side By Side

by lucy_blue



Series: Harry Potter & Death [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5+1 Things, Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Angst, BAMF Harry Potter, Can that be a tag?, Canonical Child Abuse, Dumbledore's Army, Everything Hurts, Gen, Harry Does Not Trust Adults, Harry Potter Has a Saving People Thing, Petunia Dursley Is Not Innocent, Unreliable Narrator, can we make that a tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-09-02 12:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_blue/pseuds/lucy_blue
Summary: People talk about brushes with Death. Harry's had "brushes with Death" so many times they might as well be holding hands.Ten times Harry interacted with Death.





	1. the dursleys

**Author's Note:**

> hnnnh. It was really hard choosing which near death experiences to use, especially more towards the end. This was supposed to be just five, but I couldn't pick which ones, so... ten it is.

_...They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure. And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning…_

1.

Harry had always been relatively comfortable with death. When he first began to go to school, and learned that most had people had parents and not just aunts and uncles, he’d asked Aunt Petunia about it. There’d been no quibbling about his parents being “late” or “departed” or “with the angels.” 

Harry still remembered how Aunt Petunia’s lips had crumpled in like she was sucking on a lemon. “They died,” she said with some relish. There was a hint of lipstick on her perfect white teeth, fresh blood as she angled in for the kill with her usual surgical precision. “Car crash. Your father was driving drunk. That’s how you got the scar on your forehead; you’re lucky your father’s carelessness didn’t kill you as well. For that matter, you’re lucky that we that we took you in. Out of the graciousness of our hearts, you know.” She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. 

“Thank you, Aunt Petunia,” Harry responded. 

2\. 

In Little Whinging, church fundraisers were prime opportunities to demonstrate ones’ status, and this newest fundraiser, this time for, rather stereotypically, starving children in Africa, was no different. 

The preacher rhapsodized on the pain of these starving children, speaking of the pain and suffering they experienced. On the new projector screen, they displayed children so malnourished you could could count their ribs forty feet away. Aunt Petunia delicately wiped her eyes on a monogrammed handkerchief and Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Starving” was an interesting word, Harry reflected, kicking his small legs. Starving starving starving he thought. It was an unsettling word. Sounded sharp like a knife, or like the hollowness of his own stomach. Tasted kind of like the lump in his throat as he thought about how sometimes he felt so light headed and his rib cage stuck out of his chest and he was always a little bit hungry and his teacher said growing boys were supposed to eat lots of food. 

After church there was always a carefully catered array of food spread out for the churchgoers to munch on. Dudley would always run to get there first, so he could stuff cookies down his pockets before anyone else could get to them. He would then spend the rest of the time at church eating his hoarded food, while Aunt Petunia exchanged gossip with the other women, and Uncle Vernon blustered about stocks and politics with the other men. 

Harry knew the food wasn’t for him, but he was so hungry, and… they didn’t want the children in Africa to be hungry, right? And he was hungry too... he just happened to be in Little Whinging, not Africa. He wasn’t sure if the logic was completely sound, but he was so hungry, and that chocolate cupcake looked so, so good- he’d never had one before- his hand inched towards it seemingly of its own volition. 

Aunt Petunia slapped his hands, and as if she had slapped the words out of him, “I’m starving!” burst out of him. He regretted the words the moment they fell past his clumsy lips. Everyone was staring. He must have said it wrong- or… something. The housewives were starting to whisper behind their hands. 

“Pardon me,” Aunt Petunia said with a tight smile. She grabbed Harry’s wrist with her bony fingers. Her nails dug into Harry’s skin and he swallowed a yelp. The overhangs outside were tiny, and Harry had to stand out in the drizzling rain so Aunt Petunia’s makeup wouldn’t run. 

“You are not _starving_ ,” Aunt Petunia hissed. “We are feeding you good, homemade, nutritious food, using our hard earned money to do so. To pay for a no-good, bratty, hanger-on, _freak_. You should be _grateful_.” 

“Sorry, Aunt Petunia,” Harry mumbled. 

Aunt Petunia examined him critically for a minute, then shook her head in disgust. “Go wait by the car. Do not touch _anything_ , and don’t you _dare_ chip the paint. Don’t make this worse for yourself.” 

Harry trudged to the car and stood in the rain. Aunt Petunia was probably right, he thought. He wasn’t that skinny, right? Harry glanced his arm, and slowly wrapped his fingers around the middle of his forearm. His thumb and pinky could touch if he squeezed a bit. Harry was the smallest boy in his class. 

Okay, he was skinny. But… that didn’t really mean anything. Aunt Petunia told Dudley people naturally had different sized bones. Maybe Harry just had really tiny bones. Harry’d never been to the doctor, but he bet if he went, they would say he was fine. 

He may be hungry, but he wasn’t going to die of it? Right? 

3\. 

Ripper liked to chase Harry around almost as much as Dudley and his gang did. He liked to snap at his heels when he got close, as if specifically to torment him. This always made Aunt Marge laugh, but terrified Harry that one day he would actually take a big bite out of Harry’s heel. 

Harry was a couple of months from turning nine when Ripper finally caught up. Harry tripped over his own foot, and went careening out onto the lawn. Ripper flew through the air and tackled Harry, biting into the back of Harry’s leg so hard that for a moment Harry thought his entire leg had been bitten off. Harry screamed like lungs were going out of style. 

Aunt Marge lumbered over and pulled Ripper off, saying something about how Harry shouldn’t have been taunting him. Harry couldn’t hear her over the blood rushing in his ears.

“Get into the house!” Aunt Petunia ordered. “Go wash it off. Don’t get blood on my sinks, I just cleaned them.” It had been Harry who washed the sinks, actually. He limped inside as fast as he could.

In one of Dudley’s TV shows, one of the characters had gotten bitten by a dog. He’d started foaming at the mouth and shaking his head around like he was a dog himself. One of the other characters had said something about the dog having rabies. Did Ripper have rabies? Was that why he acted so crazy all the time? 

Harry carefully washed his leg, his hands shaking all the while. He didn’t know if the character had died. Aunt Petunia had set him to doing chores before the episode had finished. 

Harry bandaged the bite as best he could and tied it tightly. He wanted to tell himself he would be fine, but he kept on thinking of that TV episode. If he died, the Dursleys probably wouldn’t even hold a funeral for him. Even if they did, no one would come to mourn him.


	2. the stone

4.

When they thought Snape was going after the Stone, they tried to talk to the adults first. 

Honestly, Harry never expected any of the professors to believe them, let alone help them. He knew Hermione would insist, and they didn’t have any time to waste arguing. Besides, maybe the adults at Hogwarts were different. 

They weren’t. McGonagall lost her temper. Instead of considering what they were saying, she just threatened to take another fifty points from Gryffindor. At the beginning of the year she had said that Hogwarts houses were family. As the trio slunk away, Harry bitterly noted that his Head of House was “family” in about the same way that the Dursleys were “family”. He wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking he could trust her with anything truly important again. 

“That’s it, then,” Harry said lowly. “Tonight, I’ll try for the Stone myself.” He hadn’t really expected any different. His mind was already racing, trying to figure out how to get through whatever may lay beneath the trapdoor. He figured his best bet was to fly his way through, with the Invisibility Cloak covering him. 

“You’ll be expelled for sure!” Hermione exclaimed. 

“We’ve already lost a shit ton of points! Mum’ll ground me for the rest of my life if I lose anymore!” Ron exclaimed. For once Hermione didn’t scold Ron for his language, instead just nodding along. 

“Don’t you _understand_?” Harry hissed. “If Snape gets the Stone- there won’t be any _you_ to ground. There won’t be any _Hogwarts_ to be expelled from! Voldemort’ll flatten it!” Harry knew he had to go down the trapdoor. Yes, there was a chance Harry would get maimed, or die. But if Snape gave Voldemort the Stone, they would all die anyway. Harry liked his chances going down the trapdoor versus just sitting around and hoping Voldemort would suddenly decide not to be a fucking psycho. 

It wasn’t a pretty choice, but Harry had made these types of choices before. Sneak some food, and possibly get caught, or go hungry for even longer? Do Dudley’s homework and get detention if he was caught, or get beaten up by Dudley for refusing? Just standing around and whining about how unfair the choice was didn’t make the choice go away. The only thing to do was suck it up, pick the better option, and just go with it. Make it work. 

“Right,” Ron sighed. 

“When do we leave?” Hermione asked. 

“We?” Harry asked.

“We’re coming with you, obviously,” Hermione said briskly, like she and Ron weren’t casually volunteering to risk their lives for him. 

Harry could feel his eyes filling with water at the gesture. No one in class had given him a kind word at risk of being a target; the only time someone had risked something for him had been his parents. He hoped Ron and Hermione wouldn’t end up the same way as they had.

“Thank you,” he said, a little bit choked up. He had to dab at his eyes with the back of his hand. Ron and Hermione politely looked away. 

Ron and Hermione started talking. As they did so, Harry started running through plans. They couldn’t all use brooms, as they wouldn’t have time to steal the Hogwarts brooms, but maybe they could still use the Invisibility Cloak… 

It was on him that they were coming. It was his responsibility to keep them safe, and take the consequences for the decision, whether that was expulsion troll’s club to the head- or a killing curse to the face.


	3. the truth

5.

It was only in the blandness of the summer after first year that Harry began to seriously consider what had happened to Quirrell. 

During the school year, he had been able to ignore it, push it down and away. He had covered it up with the rush of school and friends. It had only popped back up in a new breed of nightmare he started getting, nightmares where whatever he touched _sizzled_. Where he hugged Hermione and her body charred beneath his hands. Where Ron’s red hair was overtaken by real, actual fire. 

Harry would wake up drenched in cold sweat, his hands trembling and his stomach tossing. Often it was bad enough he would have to would on light feet to the bathroom, and throw up silently until there was nothing left in his stomach. In the morning, he would wipe away the grit in his eyes and allow the rush of life to distract him, to slowly soothe the nightmares away. 

There were plenty of chores to do at the Dursleys, and for once, Harry was kind of grateful for it, as it helped distract him from what had happened for a little while. Quickly, however, he fell back into his old routines. The chores were second nature, and he could easily do them on autopilot, leaving his mind all too free to wander. 

The truth of what had very likely happened quickly creeped up on him. Quirrell hadn’t gotten a little singed. He’d been burnt alive. Harry hadn’t been hurting just Voldemort when he kept his hands on Quirrell’s face. 

As horrific as it was- Quirrell was probably dead. 

Not probably. 

Quirrell was dead. There was no other explanation.

Harry swallowed a bit of bile. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t be happy if he threw up into the rose bushes.

He’d known it, subconsciously. He just hadn’t wanted to think it, to fully realize it. But now he knew what he had done. The thought pounded in his head for the rest of the day. Quirrell was dead. Dead dead dead. And he done it, he had caused it. So... he was a… he was a killer. A murderer.

Dumbledore had talked about how by stalling Voldemort again and again, they could keep the Wizarding World safe. Harry had _killed a man_. Yes, Quirrell had been possessed by Voldemort, but before that? He had been a living, breathing, thinking being. Harry didn’t kill the spiders that lived in his cupboard, even when they filled his socks with webs. Harry didn’t want to be a killer. But he was. He _was a killer_. 

Could Harry have somehow saved Quirrell? Do something differently? Could he have stopped Voldemort, without killing? 

If Harry did things Dumbledore’s way- how many more would die? 

Harry couldn’t sleep that night. He just stared dry eyed at the ceiling. Why couldn’t he cry? What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he cry? Didn’t Quirrell deserve his tears? 

The worst part was that no one had mourned Quirrell. No one talked had about him at school. There was no recognition of him, no words from Dumbledore. No funeral, no grave, at least not as far as Harry knew. 

It would have been easier if there had been no Quirrell, if he’d been lost to Voldemort all along. But as much as Harry wanted to, he couldn’t lie to himself. He would if he could, but he literally wasn’t able to. He knew that there had been a Quirrell, before he had been possessed. He’d been a real person, who died. Who Harry killed.


	4. kin

6.

There was only the moment. There was only the next thing he needed to do.

He drove the sword upward through the basilisk’s mouth, putting all of his weight in it. He could feel it going through the roof of the serpent’s mouth. Thick, hot blood dripped all over him, surprisingly sticky. The basilisk twitched in its death throes. 

There was something stuck in Harry’s arm. White-but-yellow, like teeth. He slid to the floor. He could feel the poison. It burned, white-hot magma in his veins. He dropped the fang to the floor. The splash was distant. His robes were turning the color of Aunt Petunia’s favorite lipstick. 

Fawkes came near. “You were fa-fantastic,” he managed. His eyelids felt so heavy already. 

There was only the next thing to do, until there was no time and nothing left to do.

Footsteps, and then Riddle, above him. “You’re dying, Harry,” Riddle said. Soft and kind and _terrifying_. “Dying even now. Look, even Dumbledore’s bird knows it. Look at him, he’s crying. Already mourning you.” 

“I’ll just watch you die,” Riddle said, melodic. “No need to hurry, we’ve got time.” 

His voice was like a lullaby. Would he sing Harry to sleep? 

Except, Harry wasn’t going to sleep. He was waking up. 

He wasn’t dying, not yet at least.

And there was still work to be done.

Fawkes dropped the diary right in Harry’s lap. He laid it down with shaking hands. He drove the fang through one page, then the next. Riddle crumpled into nothingness like paper devoured by flames.

He tucked the ink-stained husk of the diary into his robes and started over to check on Ginny, legs shaking beneath him. 

Ginny went first. He watched the corpse. That could have been him. He could have been the dead one. The basilisk’ punctured eyes dripped blood. Harry felt a strange kinship. He remembered the python. Snakes, he thought, also only have the moment, the next thing that must be done. It was nothing personal, not for either of them. 

It felt wrong to leave the basilisk like this, all the same. But there was no dirt, no way to bury him... 

Harry felt himself swaying, falling.

There was nothing, and then, the hospital wing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I survived finals! I don't know how good the grades I got are, but... I'm done, so. Plus, sixth months after i first realized I needed therapy, I'm finally getting real help. I have a treatment plan and everything, it's great. I know I sound sarcastic but I'm genuinely so happy, I feel like I'm actually moving towards being healthy and it's so exciting!


	5. obligation

7.

Harry’d been hoping for a nice, calm year. He’d been looking forward to having someone else risk their life this year. But apparently not. _Apparently_ , he would eternally be risking his life for progressively dumber and dumber shit. 

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?” Dumbledore asked calmly. 

“ _No_ ,” Harry said vehemently. He could hear Snape scoffing in disbelief behind him. 

“And did you ask an older student to put your name in for you?” Dumbledore asked in the same even tone. 

“ _No_ ,” Harry said even more strongly. 

“Obviouzly ze boy is lying!” Madame Maxime said. Karkaroff nodded in agreement. 

“He could not have crossed the Age Line, Professor Dumbledore made certain of that,” McGonagall started impatiently, but Madam Maxine cut her off. 

“‘E must have made a mistake wiz ze line,” Madam Maxine shrugged. 

McGonagall’s eyebrows rose to her hairline (quite an accomplishment considering how tightly her bun was pulled back) and she was about to say something cutting in return when Harry spoke up. 

“I don’t want to be in the Tournament.” They all turned to look at him for a moment. Snape sneered skeptically, and Fleur snorted elegantly, her nose wrinkling delicately. Karkaroff started speaking, and the rest turned away from Harry. 

“Let me finish,” Harry insisted, an edge to his voice. Adrenaline was burning through him with all of the heat and dizzying power of basilisk venom. Something was slowly starting to rattle in the background. “I guess you’re assuming I’m doing this for- for fame, or money? Ask Cedric how I’ve liked it when the Daily Prophet gossips about my daily life, or people want signatures. As for money, I’ve got plenty of it. Even if I wanted more money, all I would have to do would be sign photographs or- or something like that.” McGonagall gave Harry a slight nod, and Harry stood a little straighter as he continued. 

“Plus,” Harry continued, “ _I don’t want to die._ I’m fourteen. I’m an average student, not some _genius_. My chances of surviving are slim to none.”

“You are ze boy who leved,” Madame Maxime pointed out. The rattling increased. 

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “What, so you think I can’t die? Even if you think I can’t die- which is _ridiculous_ \- I could still lose an arm or a leg or- or get brain damage, or- or go blind, or deaf, or- obviously I still feel pain! Do none of you care about my well being?!” He burst out. 

Something shattered loudly, and he flinched. He slowly drew in deep breaths, trying to control himself. Madam Maxime was looking at him with vague disgust, like Aunt Petunia watching someone else’ toddler having a temper tantrum in the grocery store. 

“I am afraid you will still have to compete,” Mr. Crouch said, sounding tired and maybe even the tiniest bit guilty.

Harry stared at him, hands shaking with repressed frustration and rage. “Are there any- loopholes or anything?” He asked desperately. 

Mr. Crouch shook his head. “The contract demands the best effort of every champion. If you don’t try your hardest, you will lose your magic.” 

Harry stared at him wordlessly for a moment. He could feel the tightness in his chest that suggested an oncoming anxiety attack, but he just- he couldn’t believe that none of the adults gave even a _single shit_ that he was _literally going to be in mortal danger-_ but what had he been expecting? For adults to actually not be useless for once? Time spent with Sirius and Remus had spoiled him. The average adult wouldn’t lift a _pinky_ to save his life. 

Harry shook his head in disgust. “None of you ‘adults’ are allowed at my funeral. Don't pretend to mourn me.” He stormed off to go deal with his anxiety attack on his own. The door slammed shut behind him.


	6. grounding

8.

Harry would never forget those moments. 

Voldemort’s high, cold intonation rang in the silence, lay under the everyday noise waiting for a moment when there was nothing to save him from it. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw the green of it burning through him, the phantom pain in his forehead. And when he pried apart his tear stained lashes in the hollowest hours of the night, he half expected to see what he had seen then. 

Cedric, laying on the ground before him, his eyes were open but dull and empty, his mouth hanging open ever so slightly. His skin already taking on a slight gray tone. _You didn’t save me_ , the limp lines of his body saying.

The nightmares of fire blossoming on his fingertips multiplied tenfold. Dumbledore whispered that this was the price. Quirrell dissolved before him, the basilisk’s eyes spurted blood, green light exploded, lightbulbs shattered and Marge blew away on the wind, an overblown balloon. 

During sleepless nights, he practiced. Prepared. He filled the hollows of the nights, trying to build himself into something that would withstand this. He taught himself to draw his wand with just a practiced flick of his wrist. He tried to grow stronger through legions of midnight sit-ups and push-ups. He’d had the foresight to convert some galleons to muggle money, and he bought himself proper food, so that his exercise wouldn’t just burn away what little muscle he had, but instead build more. He'd let the Dursleys squish him down into less for so many years but Voldemort wouldn't make Harry smaller, he would make Harry _nothing_. 

Harry came back to Hogwarts eager to get back to spellwork. No matter how awful this year’s DADA teacher was, at least he’d be able to get back to practicing Defense spells. 

How wrong he was. 

He could barely fathom Dolores fucking Umbridge and her DADA “classes”. Voldemort was back, and he had shown he wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who stood in his way- pureblood or no. The events of the graveyard had showed that loud and clear and every night Harry learned that lesson a dozen times over again. Harry had no time for this idiocy, and he made that more than clear.

If it were anything but this, he would have probably just taken the easy route, the one that wouldn’t give him permanent scarring, would have just treated her like he did Aunt Petunia when she was really pissed off. But this wasn’t just about him. This was about the lives of everyone around him. Through her willful ignorance, Umbridge was putting everyone around him in danger. Voldemort wouldn't be rude or cruel to them, he would _destroy_ them. Cowering or flattery wouldn't do you any good; they were empty promises, empty hope. Voldemort was insane, he was a black hole devouring everything, and ignoring him wouldn't make him go away. No matter how much his hands ached from all of those detentions, he wasn’t going to give in. Harry had made choices like this all the time, and it wasn't a nice choice, wasn't a fun choice, but if you wanted to save Ginny, sometimes you had to get bit by a basilisk. 

When Hermione suggested creating the DA, he agreed pretty quickly. He may not be the best duelist or the best teacher, but if there was one thing he’d learned from DA this year, it was that any teacher was better than none. 

Harry decided to start things off by having them pair off and duel each other. He was honestly surprised just how bad some of his classmates were. It wasn’t even the number of spells that they could they knew. It was in how they all moved slowly, all stood in the exact same place, didn’t seem to know how to dodge in the least. Some of them may be academically smart, but they sure as hell weren't street smart. Acting like that, they’d never survive a fight. 

“You’re doing this all wrong,” Harry told the room bluntly. He could see people’s eyebrows rising as he struggled to explain how they were dueling wrong. 

“This is how my tutors taught me to duel!” Ernie Macmillan whispered to one of his friends. “Maybe _he’s_ the one dueling wrong, because this is how we do it in the magical world!” 

“Macmillan!” Harry called. “Let’s go a round.” 

Macmillan's head shot up, and he stared at Harry. The room snickered. 

“Seriously,” Harry said. “It’d be a good way to show what you’re all doing wrong.” 

The others cleared out a space. Harry and Macmillan bowed, then moved to opposite sides of the dueling space. Macmillan slid into a tense dueling position with his wand angled behind his head. Harry stood loosely, wand by his sides. 

“Hermione, if you would count us down,” Harry said. 

“Three, two, one-” 

“Ac-” Macmillan started. 

The two boys slammed to the floor. Harry stood quickly, Macmillan's wand in his hand. Macmillan stared up at him. Seamus started laughing slightly hysterically in the background. “Merlin, Harry, you should be doing Rugby, not Quidditch,” he choked out. Harry spared him a quick grin, then turned back to Macmillan.

“Let’s go another round,” Harry suggested. “I promise I’ll play nice this time.” 

“So you won’t-” Macmillan gestured warily to the ground. 

Harry shook his head. “I won’t.” 

“Alright,” Macmillan said reluctantly.

“Three, two, one-” Hermione counted them down. 

“Accio!” Harry could see the spell long before it reached him. He stepped aside. 

“Much better!” Harry called, grinning. “Keep ‘em coming!” 

Macmillan sent a steady stream of spells Harry’s way, increasing in speed all the while, until finally Harry didn’t move quickly enough, and he got hit. 

“Good job, Macmillan, that was fantastic,” Harry told him, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

Harry addressed the rest of the room. “Do you see what I’m saying? In real life, your opponent doesn’t care about counting to three or proper dueling stance, and you shouldn’t either.” 

The room began practicing again. This time students cast faster and dodged and fought dirty. Harry felt a rush of pride when he saw Cho distract Marietta with a tripping jinx and then quickly disarm her before she could recover, and couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw Neville tackle his opponent to the ground. They were doing a lot better. They may not have the experience yet, but they seemed to have gotten the mindset, the fighting spirit that kept you on your toes, and that was most of it. 

Harry may not have been able to save Cedric, but maybe, just maybe, he could save some of the other students.


	7. the end

9\. 

How much death?

The Old Guard, patchwork with pockmarks and voids were members had once been. Regulus Black, choking down the potion as Kreacher cried, being devoured by the waves as the hands of dead men dragged him under. James Potter, standing wandless before Voldemort. Lily Evans, pleading for Harry’s life. 

Hogwarts, too big for the shrunken children of the war. The spare dorm rooms. The cunning, resourceful muggleborns shunted into whatever house would hold them, the brave, daring sons and daughters of Dark families letting their fire sputter and die in the dungeons. Students facing off in the hallways, their pranks savage and their banter aimed to hit the inherited war wounds. The primal truth veiled by pre-game handshakes, then unleashed into deadly Quidditch matches stinking of the things that divided them. Had anyone really believed the war was over? They may have said they did, but did anyone, truly?

The war was always there. The war was the undercurrent below every conversation, every interaction. Some had been able to live around it, to mostly erase it from their sphere, but Harry had been fighting the war since the very beginning. He had quickly resigned himself to the intrinsic role death, and later he realized the war, seemed to play in his life. 

The war revealed itself. Some at least acted surprised. Maybe they’d gotten good enough at ignoring the undercurrents, at glossing over the tensions, that it really did seem to come out of nowhere for them. Not so for Harry. Some part of him had always expected this. He had been molded for warfare. He had never expected Voldemort to stay dead, and since that day at Diagon Alley, some part of him had known how this one would end- in one of their deaths. 

Voldemort was good at killing. Harry was good at almost dying; he figured the real thing wouldn't be too much worse.

Harry had expected that if he died, his death would be a defeat. He had rallied against it, not because of some desire to endure on, but because of what he knew it would mean for all the others. He fought nigh impossible odds only because if he died, there would be nothing left for the others. Now, Harry’s death was a victory- the final play, the sacrificed piece, death for the lives of the others. 

He was at peace with it. The only thing Harry took issue with was how many others had already died in the crossfire. How many muggleborns would only know magic as torture, would never sit beneath the Sorting Hat. The wands snapped, the lives abruptly cut off. The generation fragmented, and now dissolving, under the pressure of the war. This tiny pocket world, devouring itself, heedless of the consequences. 

He wished he could have been better. Could have been stronger. Could have gotten off his ass and managed to find the horcruxes before now. 

The dead rose before him. He bowed his head. 

“I never wanted any of you to die for me,” Harry said softly. “I’m- I’m _so, so, s-sorry_.” His eyes almost overflowed with tears, but he painfully held them back. This wasn’t about him and his pain, this was about theirs. 

“Oh Harry,” Remus said. “The war was always so much bigger than you.”

“I never regretted dying for you, nor will I ever.” Mom said. “I only regret that I could not live for you.” She looked just as she had in the mirror. Harry burst into tears, hiccuping and sobbing painfully. He had thought he was past petty tears. He had thought he was _strong_. 

“I’m- I’m sorry,” He choked out again. “I-I’m s-sorry…” Mom reached out to him, tried to fold him into a hug, but she passed right through him, as insubstantial as a dream. 

“We’re so very, _very_ proud of you,” Dad said. “I couldn't have asked for a better son.” His glasses were round and lopsided, and his hair looked just like Harry’s. The tears were hot and wet on Harry’s cheeks, and he felt like with each sob he was jostling his soul in his chest. 

Dad reached over to ruffle Harry’s hair, to pull him close, but the air didn’t even stir. Harry nearly choked on the words spilling out of him. 

“I’m sorry- Remus- right after having your son-” Harry said to Remus. “Sirius- Regulus- he was never one of His, he tried to destroy the horcruxes-” 

“I’m sorry as well,” Remus said, his sad smile as gentle as always. “Sorry to leave you now… sorry I will never know my son. But he will know why I died, and I hope that he will understand, and perhaps forgive me… I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life. I know you will tell him stories of me, and perhaps through you, he will know me.” 

“I know what Regulus did,” Sirius grinned, looking proud and frankly _delighted_. He looked younger and happier than he ever had in life. “Who knew Regulus had it in him, eh?”

Harry sniffed, trying to wipe his eyes, clean himself up. He needed to be strong. He needed to be able to do this. 

“I want you to know,” Mom said, “That whatever happens, we’ll always be with you. We’ll always be watching over you.” 

Harry continued walking, slowly recovering his composure. His tears left tracks on his dirty face. He wiped the snot from his chin as best he could. 

None of the others made any noise as they walked along with him, Sirius loping, Dad sauntering. Even Remus walked with much more confidence. He was no longer dressed in shabby clothing as before, but in the garb of a distinguished, scholarly individual; he carried a book under one arm. 

“Stay with me,” Harry pleaded. 

“Until the very end.” 

10\. 

“Harry Potter… the Boy Who Lived… has come to die.” 

Harry closed his eyes. 

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” 

1.

Harry woke up. 

There was still work to be done. He had died for them, now it was time to live for them.


End file.
